


Offering

by DarthFucamus



Category: Silent Hill (2006), Silent Hill (Video Game Series), Silent Hill: Revelation 3D (2012)
Genre: Cult, Cults, Dismemberment, F/M, Female Reader, Fingering, Human/Monster Romance, Impregnation, Ritual Sex, Rough Sex, Tongues, Violence, dubcon, not canon, reader - Freeform, sacrificial offering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-22 08:50:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11376771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarthFucamus/pseuds/DarthFucamus
Summary: He came to you in your dreams, pulling the darkness like a shroud behind him.The Executioner, the same as in the painting, yet utterly different. Real.Before him you trembled, but his wrath was not directed to you. His was the righteous weapon of God’s will, and he held it pointed outward.---Dubcon, no straight up noncon.





	Offering

**Author's Note:**

> Listen to the soundtrack here:  
> https://open.spotify.com/user/1230836959/playlist/4lkHXhTLXOltLUMNNbIecS

You close your eyes, but you cannot escape the way the fog sits against your skin, nor forget the way it obscures all that is within it. You aren’t sure if the horrors your mind is conjuring are worse than the ones you are about to face.

Unlike a natural fog, this is dry and hot. It smells like smoke, tastes like ash, and settles on your gauzy ceremonial dress, dulling the vibrant red of the fabric.

When you look, solid particles drift to the carpet of ash on the ground. Even without seeing them, you can still feel them feather light on your skin.

The air is thick and starved of oxygen, and the ash tickles your throat, makes you cough. You can breathe okay, but it is enough to give you a pounding headache. With your arms lashed to the limbs of the Y-shaped cross, your diaphragm feels cramped and it is hard to fill your lungs anyway.

The way your own weight causes the bindings to cut into your skin can’t be helped, no matter how you try to shift your position. The tiny plank upon which you stand is barely large enough for your feet to balance, and it wobbles. A sharp pain has settled into the balls of your feet for bearing your weight so unnaturally when you try to relieve your wrists of the strain.

You'd given up your faith in the methods of judgement long before you even fell victim to it. You have seen firsthand how selective the leaders of the Order are in following the tenets of the true religion.

You aren't perfect by any means, but you've tried to stay humble and grounded. Meanwhile, Priestess Miriam took it upon herself to reinterpret the Word of God to elevate herself above accountability.

You did your best to embody temperance, but Miriam’s anger in being questioned or disobeyed was fierce.  
You maintained a chaste life, but it was Brother Michael, her second, whose sore-riddled hands were far too familiar with you when he knew no one was around to witness; and after your sentencing was given, he didn't even bother hiding his lascivious tendencies in relation to you. 

Who cared? You are a heretic now, less than human.

You stopped praying to God, for she never answered. She did nothing when the leaders of the Order allowed corruption in their hearts, nor when the congregation followed like sheep, eager to justify their sin. Instead, you prayed to someone else, someone you have only seen in your dreams, or seen depicted in the painting within the chapel.

You pray to him now. But it's difficult to concentrate.

You are hearing things. The eerie silence that came with the fog is starting to give way to sounds. Animal noises, though as made by human throats, distorted and in torment. They come from the void of falling grey. Muffled, distant, yet somehow so close for how sound gets caught in the air. Your heart lurches behind your ribs and you open your eyes despite your fear, blinking away the accumulated particles from your eyelashes.

The features of the town above ground, buildings on the other side of the church square are not visible anymore. But there is something else. Shadows in the flaky mist. Tortured groans that resonate to your core, in chilling voices, that combination of human and something else.

The demons are coming.  
At least you don't feel like crying. If you die, it will be with dignity, as much as you can muster to the very last minute. The shaking, though is outside of your control. It rattles your guts, cramps your ribs, sends shockwaves up your spine until your teeth chatter.

A shadow lurches through the layers of fog until its shape becomes recognizable. Like the noises it makes, it is nearly human, but so wrong. If it has arms, they are hidden beneath the sheath of skin that covers its head. You watch it stumble toward you, though how it sees without eyes you cannot say.

More are coming through the fog behind it. Different shapes, though, frightening and twisted. As they draw near the moans and muffled screams grow louder. You don't know, but it seems like they are communicating. You are sure that you are the subject.

The nearest thing, in the skin sheath, starts convulsing. Its torso arches back and then its chest splits, yawns wide, exposing a gaping maw, webbed with mucous and brackish slime. From this massive orifice comes a noise that cuts into your heart like razor wire. It sounds like the shriek of a rabbit being slaughtered, sharp and mindless and drawn-out. The soft tissue inside the orifice pulses, and then a gout of yellow bile shoots forth in an arc, just missing your feet. Everything it touches begins to smoke, and an acrid stench rises.

Another sound cuts through the cacophony. You recognize it, and so do the demons, by all appearances, when they freeze.

The sirens.

The figures in the fog sway in place. All but the one nearest to you. That one groans and shuffles closer, determined to reach you. You know that if it spews its acid again, it won't miss.

The sky, already shrouded in ash, darkens to impenetrable black, as if a curtain has been drawn.

You pray harder than you ever have. You pray for judgement, and for vengeance.  
It is as though the creatures in the fog have heard you. A chorus of sound rises from them, deep and dissonantly united.

Your heart hammers, pounds until you think it will burst. You don't even feel the pain in your wrists anymore. The creature is unphased by the sirens. Its maw ripples, stretches wide, and you know you are about to die.

A new figure looms in the brume, ominous and completely distinct from the others.

At first you think you are seeing things. It would have to be nearly seven feet tall if your eyes don't deceive you.

The maw creature groans, begins to shudder as it prepares to attack.

A massive blade thrusts through the fog over the chestmaw. It cuts through the dense particulate sending whirls into the air, in a downward arc.

The maw creature takes the blade’s edge as easily as if it were a sweet mallow stabbed with a hot poker. It squeals. You gape as it is bisected the very instant that it expels the acid. Instead of a focused stream, the acid bile gushes over the squirming split corpse, bubbling and hissing like a hot spring.

You are too shocked to scream, too dumbfounded to react as the great blade is dragged back into the fog with a grating shriek. It leaves a solid gash in the concrete, trailing slimy innards and acid bile behind it, giving some clue as to the strength that wields it.

And then he emerges.

His silhouette in the haze had defied your understanding, but you understand what you are seeing now. His stature is immense. Not inhuman, but taller than anyone you've ever met. And it is only heightened by the geometric triangular helm that takes the place of, or possibly covers, his head. It is oversized and massive, with the longest point at the fore, angled downward so that it extends in front of his chest. A peaked, rusted hunk of red metal that looks as though it must weigh greatly on him. Or would, if the rest of him weren't so incredibly muscular.

You are in awe of him as he hefts the great knife, itself more massive than should have been possible to bear aloft one-handed, over his shoulder. You tremble as you did in your dream, but it is not fear you feel. At that moment, you are overcome by his terrible beauty.

You know death has come for you. The Executioner is here to take his due. If it is your blood that must spill, and he the form of your judgement, then so be it. You are almost grateful.

In a way, he is saving you from something worse, and slower, at the mercy of the lesser demons around him. Even they fear him, it seems, for they have scarcely moved since his arrival, except to give him a wider berth.

You have but one wish, now. That he not stop with you.  
You don't know if he can speak, or understand words. You sag against the binding ropes until your fingertips start to tingle and grow cold. You bow your head, willing to humble yourself before him.

  
You want them dead. Every last one of the congregation of the Order. Traitors to the faith, afraid of what they know they deserve. When you told them of your White Claudia seed-induced visions of the Judgement day, they reacted not in humility, but in anger. They blamed you, called you a heretic. You were only trying to warn them. They might have been able to repent, but instead… they tried to make you pay for their trespasses.

“Please,” you whisper in a voice hoarse from hours of coughing in the toxic air, exhausted and strained from the effort of holding yourself aloft. “Take me. I give myself willingly as a sacrifice, independent of their offering. Take me, and bring your judgement down upon the false believers.”

You don't know if he comprehends your words, but he does react to your voice. He steps closer so that more of him is illuminated in the dancing flames, and shreds of suspended fog separate before him.

For a moment you forget your weary resignation, your righteous anger, and the pain in your strangled hands.  
Why was such a being made to be so utterly... male? Your eyes move on their own it seems to take him in. You almost can't help it. He is naked from the low-slung waist of his skirts, like a long butcher’s apron, to the broad, dense shoulders which are somehow so suited to bearing the burden of his rusted red helm.

He lets the great knife slide off his shoulder. Its tip hits the ground. It must be nearly as long as you are tall, and by the way his arm muscles bunch, it is very heavy. Silently you repeat your plea. You want your death to mean something.  
When he takes the hilt in both hands, you prepare yourself for what is coming.

He drags it across the ground to his other side. He takes two heavy steps forward.

He is so close that you can see the mottled veining of his muscle-dense chest and abdomen, the sharp V where his muscular hips slope beneath the blotchy, brownish-yellow leather apron.

He drags the blade point around behind him, preparing for an overhand strike. And in one smooth motion, far more precise and fluid than you would have expected, he swings the blade up and forward.

You clench your eyes.  
Metal slams against wood with a great splintering crack. You feel the impact to your core, jarring pain in your wrists… and then you are falling.

Your body meets something solid, the crook of an arm that hooks around you and moves with you, absorbs your impact. A broad hand grips your back. It eases you down, releases when your feet touch ground.

No longer supported, your legs buckle and you collapse in a kneeling heap.  
It takes you a moment for your brain to catch up to the present.

The first thing you realize is that you are alive.

Painfully, blissfully alive. Your hands throb as the blood rushes back into them, your wrists are raw and stinging where the rope abraded skin. You let out a relieved sob. No longer forced to stand upright, you let loose a series of wet coughs, spit out the greyish phlegm, and feel better.

The second thing you are aware of is the figure towering over you.  
You are so close you can reach out and touch his lower leg. With delirious bravery, you do just that. You touch the leathery material of his garment, which you don't doubt is human in origin, and grip the front of a solid shin through it.

You hear breathing, ragged and coarse, echoing in metal. Your eyes climb up his legs, to his abdomen. It swells and contracts steadily. You follow the path to bulging pectorals, prominent clavicles, and the underside of his helmet. It's shadowy but you catch a glimpse of something soft and fleshy. You look away, blushing as if you'd seen something personal.

Why did he spare you? And what is he waiting for?

The Y-cross you were lashed to lay in pieces on the ground. His strike had been so precise that he sheared the back of it off, severing the ropes without harming you. It seemed deliberate.

His great blade is at rest on the ground. His empty hand that was hanging at his side rises and points.

You follow the line of his arm with your eyes. He is gesturing to the church behind you. It is the only building in the overtown still used by the villagers. It also hides the entrance to the undertown.

It is the one place the demons cannot go.  
Holding onto the Executioner’s leg, marveling at the strength in it, you pull yourself up. Now that you are sure he doesn't mean to kill you, not yet at least, you no longer fear him. Especially now that you know what he wants.

Here is the fist of God, her servant and the arbiter of her law. His will is an extension of hers. Perhaps he's heard your prayer. Perhaps he understands.

You are tired, but you can walk. Behind him, the lesser demons in the fog sway.

You see dozens of figures, now. Twisted and wrong. Some of the indistinct silhouettes have too many limbs. Some squat low on the ground like spiders. Some are stunted and bowed. They wait, utter the occasional moan or gurgle.

You've seen the aftermath of their savagery and bestial bloodthirst, and you know they are not usually so calm.  
You begin the walk to the church. You limp, at first. Your knees are stiff, your feet sore from the way you were forced to balance on the cross. But you feel energized, seized with purpose. For the first time, you feel as though your devotion has been recognized. Perhaps God has listened after all.

As your bare feet step through ash, you can hear him behind you, dragging his blade along the concrete and stone of the square. It grinds, echoes in the fog, and a chorus of groans and shuffles follow. Like a hellish procession with sacred purpose.

You climb the steps to the front door.  
Before you reach for the handle, you look back over your shoulder. You gasp.  
Behind the towering figure of the Red Pyramid, you can see the corruption of the Otherworld has changed the town square. It seems the fog has settled behind, but it is replaced by a darkness your eyes can't penetrate. You see two points of light where the fire braziers are, but they are dim and distant.

The stonework ground has transformed to rusted iron grating. You can't see what's underneath, but the muted indication of massive mechanisms groan at a depth unfathomable. It frightens you, but at the same time… it feels familiar. You stand on the church steps, solid stone, but everything behind the Executioner’s feet is corrupted and decaying.

You are reminded of your dream, and how the darkness followed him like a shroud. You did not expect to see such a literal representation of this, but the border between the real world and the hell dimension where he reigns crackles, a curtain of rising ash at his back .  
You face the door once more, and you place your hands upon it.

From the place where your hands meet the wood, cracks begin to form and grow. The wood peels and splits, as if your touch is aging it. The wrongness radiates like ripples in a pond, picking up speed.  
With a sick sort of fascination, you draw your finger over the surface. Everywhere you touch, a trail of corrosion and rot blooms and sinks in deep.

Your stomach twists when you realize that you are breaking down the barrier between the hallowed ground and the Otherworld.

You clench your teeth. With a spiteful snarl, you push against the doors with all your strength.

The wood buckles beneath your palms, splinters, and then gives. Your hands break through. And then the wood begins to crumble around the holes, disintegrating like it's charred.

You can't believe it, but the rot spreads like lightning, and the door falls to pieces before you.

Inside the portal, the church is untouched , silent and empty. The congregation is asleep belowground. Safe, they think. They expect to wake in the morning to find whatever was left of you, and rejoice that their sacrifice was accepted.

The Executioner steps up beside you. You can't be sure, but it seems that he's waiting for your cue.

As you walk down the red carpeted aisle, you hear the savage sounds of the monsters pouring through the doors.  
Candelabras and icons crash to the floor. Destruction is being wreaked behind you. Pews and furniture are smashed, or drenched in gouts of acid. You hear it but your eyes are fixed ahead. Past the stone slab altar, surrounded by ornate, wall-mounted candelabras that are dark.

There, positioned to draw the focus of all in the chapel, is a massive oil painting of God.

You approach the altar with your pulse thrumming in your ears. She looks down upon the viewer with a serene expression, clothed in a flowing red gown. You look at your own sacrificial garb. It is the same. It doesn't really make sense to you. Why dress you to resemble God if you're meant to die a horrible death? Stupid, stupid.

You don't know how to feel about her. For as long as you can remember, you've lived by the tenets of the Order. You've worshipped and humbled yourself, done your best to adhere to the principles. Better than most. It's said that she will lead her devoted children to paradise. But where is she?

You turn away from her to see disgusting manifestations crawling on the walls, skittering into side doors where you can hear more chaos. Everywhere they go, the Otherworld bleeds through, and you know you've started a chain reaction that cannot be undone.

And, standing there in the center of shattered wood and shredded hymnals, is the very embodiment of the severity of God’s love.

The Red Pyramid. His duty is his punishment, and the burden he must bear in the form of his massive helmet. You don't know how he sees, but you know he is looking at you. You consider that he has held up his end. Now, he will take your offering in payment.

You were expecting this. This is the price you pay for the punishment of the congregation. It is not so steep, you think, though you can't help but feel the panic rise in your chest.

You will fight it though.

You back up until your lower back hits the altar. What better place to die than beneath the loving eyes of God?

The Executioner drags the point of his blade forward. You can somehow hear him breathing past the sounds of the demons smashing through the back rooms. The tip of his knife carves a channel in the wooden floor, cuts through the red carpet.

He takes the hilt in both hands, point down. He grips it tight, lifts it.

And with a grunt, he stabs it downward with such force that the floor cracks around it and it sinks halfway. Behind you, light and heat flares, and you spin to see the candelabras on either side of the painting spewing gouts of flame toward the ceiling before they shrink to normal size. God seems to glow in the painting. She seems to be looking right at you.

A heavy thud makes you turn away.

Before now, the lesser demons have remained in the main chapels and antechambers. But the planting of the weapon seems to have been a signal of some kind. Now the creatures have broken through the doors on either side on the pews, the ones that lead to the undertown. The congregation, sleeping in their beds, have no idea what is coming for them. They are defenseless, and they are doomed.

The Executioner is coming toward you. But he steps around his weapon. Without it, you see that his lumbering gait is more steady, though still halting. Is he going to kill you with his bare hands? For some reason, this makes your belly tighten. Thinking of his hands on you, even to squeeze the life out of you or, considering his strength, tear you asunder, it makes your pulse race.

He is a weapon unto himself, dense and blunt and unstoppable. You are soft, and comparably fragile… there is nothing you can do.

Not that you would. There is something off about this, but you aren't one to question it. It also feels somehow… exciting.

He's so large, and as he stands before you, you are forced to look up to address him.

“I'm ready,” you croak, and swallow.

He reaches for you with both hands. They are powerful and big as they wrap about your waist. He lifts, and as though you weigh nothing, he sits you atop the edge of the altar. The way he squeezes you, firm but not painful, sends a tremor between your legs, and you are baffled by your reaction.

Maybe you can't help it. Your body is responding to his provocative masculinity.

He doesn't let you go. You can hear him breathing still, and it's coarse.

His hands tighten. They squeeze your waist, and his fingers clench in the gauzy material of your dress. With a grunt, he fists the fabric and wrenches it apart, tearing it like tissue paper. You are startled and gasp, fall back on a hand as he drops the ruined gown to the floor. He pushes forward, and rests his hands on your naked thighs.

Suddenly, you know. The sacrifice he takes will not be of blood, but of flesh.

He steps around the side of the altar, and now his breaths come in rattling growls, amplified by his helm.

You are trembling. To think of being taken by him… surely it will tear you asunder as well as any weapon. But you've made the offering. You do not get to choose the terms.

You hold one arm over your bare breasts as you pull your legs up. You turn around to face him.

Impatient, he reaches forward and grips you by the ankle, and jerks you toward him.

Powerful corded muscles slide you toward him until your knees dangle over the edge. Your cunt muscles clench in reflex to your legs being wedged open around his hips.

You are making small sounds in your throat, you can't control them. Even with your conviction you are afraid of pain in such a personal place.

To your surprise, you hear him groan. One hand goes to the bottom edge of his helmet, and he tugs on it as though it troubles him, but it doesn't budge.

You feel something then that you never expected. You pity him. By his nature, his very existence is discomfort that cannot be alleviated. Whatever he did to deserve his role was terrible enough to warrant an existence without true intimacy. Forever destroying, a spectre of death without solace.

You lower your arm from your breasts and he leans back slightly, hooks a thumb into the waist of his apron. You swallow hard when your eyes are drawn to the abdominal muscles and the way they pull your eyes downward and to the center.

You can see a bulge there, tenting the human leather. Your cunt tightens and you can feel your body making ready for whatever is concealed beneath his gruesome clothing.

With God looking down upon you both, you know that this is right, but your body is more ready than you are. You push yourself forward so your lower legs hang on either side of his thighs, and then you lean back, reclining against stone.

Broad hands reach for your waist, fingers spread to span as much of your abdomen as he can. His fingertips sink into your skin, and he makes another noise that sounds to you almost like despair. Somehow you know it's because he can't get his face close to you.

You place your hands on top of his, and you push them downward, encouraging his exploration. If God wants this, then you don't feel so bad for wanting it, too, even if it is a little scary. His fingers drag down to your hips and then your thighs, and by the way he seems to want to take his time, he is enjoying it. You squirm under his touch, but don't shy away from it.

His massive palms grip your thighs, hard enough to hurt, and then he pries them apart wide. You suck air in through your teeth.

You stare at the painting of God when you feel those hands slide toward your inner thighs. He knows where to go. Coarse fingers probe your mound and then find your lips. They search for the soft cleft and slip between your folds. The other hand tightens on your thigh.

You breathe fast and shallow, and shudder as his thumb nudges your clit. It almost seems accidental.

He stops, and then does it again. As if electrified by a live wire, your entire body jolts. He begins to push against it, firm but still far gentler than you ever would have expected, growling low for your reaction. A shiver courses through you and you sigh sweetly.

You feel another digit probing for your entrance. When he finds it, he doesn't waste time, he slips it inside. His finger is large, but not too much so. You tighten around it, while your hands rest on your belly hesitantly. Another bump on your clitoris makes you forget your uncertainty, and a tightness begins to mount in the base of your spine.

With a metallic groan he begins to push against your clit and into you with his fingers. You were not expecting this. It's too hard but… as slick as you are already starting to be, it feels good.

You peer down at him. All you can see is the massive shape of his helm, the broad shoulders showing on either side, full of potential menace even at rest, and his arm, flexing rhythmically as he penetrates you with a hooked finger. He responds to your sounds, and your tiny movements as though he is attuned to them.

He strokes something wonderful inside of you at the same moment that he runs the pad of his thumb on your sensitive nub and it's like fire filling your veins. You utter a soft moan and find yourself moving against him.

A second finger begins to push against your opening. There's not a lot of warning when it eases past your ring of muscle, stretching you open to join the first, and sweet aching pain makes you whimper and squirm, your hands tensing on your stomach.

His other hand holds onto your hip, as if to keep you still while his digits plunge into you. You can see his hips making small thrusting motions when he pushes in, hear his resounding breaths in time with his rhythms.

His manipulations are starting to build the heat in you. It's compounding. The hand on your hip tightens. His thumb massages your sensitive nub in circles and the two digits hook upward inside of you. They stretch you and stroke, hollowing against your soft inner flesh with steady-handed surety.

Soon, you hold your hand atop the one on your hip, feel the tendons and veins. Your spine bends, thrusting your breasts up.

The Executioner emits a steady rumble from deep in his chest. He pounds you with his hand until his knuckles begin to bruise the delicate skin of your cunt lips. Skin slaps skin, and what he's doing to you feels so good you can't help but hump onto him.

You hear distant screams echoing up from the halls. The first of the slaughter. You suspect that they are trying to flee. You don't know why but that realization sends a flash of molten heat into your spine until it overflows.

His thick fingers pull the ecstasy out of you and you come at his beckon with a soft, stuttering whine.

Your legs fall limp on either side of his hips. You watch him pull his hand from between your legs and hold it as though he's looking at it. It's glistening, webbed with clear mucous, and you can feel by the coolness of the air between your thighs that you're drenched. You don't know what to expect now, or if he's done with you.

Something peeks around the bottom edge of his helm. Something pink and wet and thin, like a worm.

It starts to emerge, more and more of it, until it's nearly a foot long. You realize with a mixture of horror and fascination that it's a part of him. He brings his hand closer to it, and it bobs and sways, and then with prehensile agility, winds itself around his wet fingers.

A tongue, you think with a hot flash. It's his tongue, and it's slurping your juices off his hand. You are enthralled by the way that it moves, and the way that more of it emerges at a steady pace, writhing and coiling around his digits to lick every trace of you from them.

You are present enough to wonder if the monsters had killed anyone yet. They are little more than animals, easily thwarted by closed doors. It could take all night to flush the congregation out of their living cells. You hope you live to see their punishment. But first… he's not through with you.

The hand on your hip breaks away.

It goes around to the back of his waist. Only then do you see the size of the solid bulge between his legs. You know now that he was getting you ready for that, though you aren't totally sure what it will be like.

His thin tongue unwraps itself from his hand, and so quickly slurps back beneath his helmet before re-emerging, longer. It hangs down, and its tip touches your stomach, and you forget everything outside of this room.

It looks delicate, strangely so when compared to the rest of him. But it is strong. You feel its ropy length moving against your skin. It's wet, and it pulses. Your hands hover, unsure what to do. But then it begins to snake, slithering from your navel to your breastbone, leaving a trail of saliva behind it. Like a slug.

Its noodly length creeps up to your neck and somehow you know it seeks your mouth. You look to his helmet, and you wonder if it pains him that he can't kiss you with lips.

Suddenly the human leather skirt falls slack. It hangs on the protrusion between his legs like a coat hook for a second before it drops, and then you see his cock.

It's massive, and uncut. A moist pink tip peeks from the fleshy sheath. His hand, still wet from his saliva and you, goes to the shaft and grips it. A fist like a brick wraps around it and pulls back the foreskin, exposing the glistening glans.

You gasp, and then his thin tongue slips past your open lips and into the warm, moist orifice of your mouth. You are startled enough to keep your teeth apart, even as the ropy tongue begins to writhe over and around your tongue. More of it slides into your mouth, wet and faintly salty with the taste of your own skin on it.

Something about it feels so intimate, as close as he can get to achieving a deep kiss, and you accept it and try to stroke it with your tongue, even when you feel the tip spill past the back of your mouth and slide down your throat. Your muscles tighten reflexively, swallowing. It is not thick enough, nor deep enough to gag you. It feels strange, intrusive, but not unpleasant.

He groans as if the feeling of your throat tensing around it pleasures him. Like a hummingbird drinking sweet dew from the center of a flower, you feel it darting deep.

His hands both go to your hips, and he jerks you toward him atop the stone altar. Your buttocks are half hanging off now, and his cock rests atop your mound. From this angle it is impossibly big, but as wet as you are, you're not sure. You want him inside of you.

His tongue slurps out of your mouth and you groan when it begins to slide down to your breast. It wraps about the base, to the nipple, circling the wrinkled areola and the puckered nub. It squeezes and plucks, jolting you with sweet shocks that make your back arch.

At that moment, you feel his shaft slide between your lips without penetrating. Bleary eyed, as his tongue pinches and plucks your nipple, you watch his entire length slide through your wet folds, coating itself in your slickness to emerge through the top glistening. He groans inside his helmet and does it again, this time you feel the friction against your clit.

Your cunt clenches around nothing. You would pierce yourself upon his blunt weapon if you could but his hands hold you in place as he slides along your vulva with his shaft, so teasingly.

It's driving you mad.

You writhe beneath him and throw your hands back over your head. You wrap your legs about his waist, feeling the dense curve of his muscular ass, the way the muscles flex when he slides his cock between your lips. You are so wet and the blood is so tight between your legs it almost hurts. Your heart beats a steady rhythm in your clit. The friction of his veiny length against the delicate folds between your legs is so close to pleasure, but just shy of being enough and you whimper and beg wordlessly.

Someone shouts, closer now, and though your face is pinched with need, you turn to see Priestess Miriam and Brother Michael, wild-eyed and covered in blood emerging into the chapel from the doors to undertown. They try to close the door behind them, but it is broken on its hinges.

They see you, and the majestic abomination rutting against you and they gasp, their terror forgotten.

“The Executioner! What is he doing?!” The wrinkled old bitch shrieks. Her ash grey hair is loose down her back, still mussed from sleep.

You smile and turn toward the painting, which watches all that is happening before it with perfect love.

“Mother, please accept my sacrifice. Take me,” you whisper with a mad smile.

The Executioner’s fingers tighten on your waist to the point of near pain and you beg.

He pulls back, and you take his organ in hand, and you guide it home.

His head pushes against your sopping hole, and he rolls his hips forward. You feel the foreskin peel back and you can feel every prominent vein as his girth stretches you taut. You utter a throaty groan as Miriam and Michael gasp in horror when they realize you are willing.

He slides into you inch by inch, wider and wider until you are panting from the strain. His tongue moves down your stomach, coating everything in between in his thick saliva, and it finds your clit. It glides smoothly under your clitoral hood, wraps around your tiny nub and slips over it.

Now the pain is entangled with pleasure until you can't tell the difference anymore.

You think that perhaps some of the lesser demons have found the two strays because the chapel is filled with bloodcurdling screams and wet tearing sounds, but you’re not really present enough to care. Even when you hear your name.

Hot waves crash between your legs and your cunt muscles ripple around his cock as you come again with him planted inside of you.

He slams in deep before your climax has a chance to recede, wedging your legs open wide with his hips, jabbing your inner thighs with the jut of meat and bone. His tongue is relentless, and takes you from over sensitive to the rising swell of another orgasm before you can catch your breath. A wet chunk of something hits the floor beside the altar, but it is nearly indistinguishable from the noise his hard organ makes when it rams into your slick orifice. Your cries of mindless ecstasy mingle with Miriam and Michael’s dying breaths. The Executioner snarls and pulls out part way, only to plunge in again with a brutal smack.

He thrusts with an unforgiving pace, churning friction into your inner walls, jarring your body like a bludgeon. He batters your cervix, and wet starts to stream from your eyes as you lose yourself.

You feel like you are coming apart at the seams.

It is not gentle. It might hurt, except for the way his cock strikes you deep. He reaches some hidden inner place that accommodates and welcomes this kind of sensual violence.

The sensations are consuming. With each smash of his hips into your inner thighs and his cockhead against the unyielding back wall in your insides, you give yourself to him completely, surrender to God’s weapon with your very soul.

His existence is pain and his duty is grim, but he knows how to find his solace in pleasure. His helmet bobs as he sheathes himself repeatedly in your yielding flesh.

The Executioner is tugging you down onto his cock as much as he's thrusting his hips to meet you. Your breasts bounce, and one of his hands peels off your hip, broad palm sliding up your side to your ribs to grip your soft bosom. His broad palm nearly encompasses it.

Each stab of his hips is punctuated by a sharp grunt. The noises he is making… they are nearly not human. Guttural and animal-like, they disturb and electrify you.

You see through blurry eyes that his tongue is wrapping about the base of his cock as it pistons into you. With a pop you feel it coil around his shaft, ribbing your taut entrance. With one hand, he holds you, with the other, he tries desperately to remove him helmet, or adjust it, but it is immovable. Regardless, he doesn't stop, or even slow.

The added girth stretches you to the point of sweet pain, but you are slippery and slick with the product of your own arousal and are able to accommodate all of him. It is somehow touching that he wants to taste you even now. And it is not only for his benefit. His thin organ is long enough that it loops up and around your clit, squeezing with every plunge. It is merciless, plucking and squirming against your engorged nerves until you're forced, screaming, into another mind-shattering climax.

Only when you don't think you can physically withstand another, he rams into you to the balls and and strangles your clit with his tongue forcing another out of you. Your bones are jelly.

This time, he moans and shudders, and pierces you deep. You feel his cock throb as he releases, with you convulsing around him. Quaking and sobbing, you no longer have control of your voice. Your vocalizations rival those of Miriam and Michael, though they are silent, now.

He curls forward as much as he can without bashing you with his metal helm, planting his hands atop the altar on either side of you, gasping loudly behind his impenetrable metal cage as the pulsing slows and stops. It seems that you're not the only one who needs a moment to recover.

When he eases out of you, a flood of warmth spills down your inner thighs. You lay atop the altar, boneless and blank, panting for breath. You have never felt such satiation.

Your entire body quakes, and everything between your legs is a sloppy mess, sore and throbbing. Your cunt is still wracked with aftershocks, but you feel lighter than air.

The Executioner’s tongue slowly retreats under his helmet. His softening cock is messy and wet, dark pubic hair matted with cum and bodily fluids. The set of his shoulders is less tense now. You hope he found as much relief in the carnal act as you did. Your body is worn out now, but you will recover.

Giddily, you smile as you watch him lower into an easy crouch, moving so as not to bump you or the altar with the wicked points of his helmet. He rises with the skirts around his waist, his hands working to fasten them behind him.

Clothed once more, he steps away from the altar.

When you are ready, you make yourself sit up and turn with your legs dangling over the front of the stone top. You slide off, holding the edge to steady yourself.

You now see human remains scattered about the chapel. You almost step on a hand laying in a red splatter before the altar. A spiny creature is hunched over a smear of innards by the door to the left, dipping its long, bony, many-jointed fingers into the mess and bringing the glistening red to its tooth-rimmed mouth. You think it's devouring part of Michael.

The Executioner is going toward his weapon. The great knife sinks into the floor as he approaches it. He bends forward and reaches into the hole in the wood left behind. Instead of his knife, he pulls out the shaft of a long, thin spear, the very same as in the painting. Then he stands straight and tall and faces you.

You don't know what he wants, but he is waiting.

On impulse, you turn back to the massive painting. To your shock, it has changed.

No longer does it show the classic depiction of God. Instead, it shows you, clothed in red with your hair flowing. You wear the same serene expression, and you cradle an infant in your arms.

You begin to laugh as the meaning becomes clear to you. You are not a heretic, a deceiver, or a sinner. You are so much more important, far more than the congregation could have ever imagined.

Your fate is to be the mother of God, the vessel for her coming, and the Executioner has planted the seeds. You look down and touch your belly, marked with faint bruises by his powerful grip, and you wonder if the joining was a success. If not, perhaps you will get to try again. The thought coils hot and quivering in your lower spine. You would welcome more attempts.

You hear heavy steps ascend the dais behind you and turn to see him. He waits, looking straight ahead.

He is at your command, you realize. He was from the start, perhaps even before when he visited your dreams. The very thought of it sends a thrill through you. You bend down and take the heap of red dress. It's no longer shredded, but you don't question the logic of anything anymore. You pull it over your head.

Once you are once more garbed in the sacred attire, he kneels beside you and offers his arm. You let him scoop you up beneath your buttocks, and when he lifts you and rises, a shiver courses down your spine. He shows no sign of expended effort but for a soft grunt. He holds you firm, perched on his shoulder as much as you can be with his red pyramidal helmet. You feel his taut strength flex beneath you.

Carrying you, with his emission still leaking between your thighs, the Executioner approaches the door to Undertown. Without hesitation or apparent thought, he gores the spiny creature crouching there through the chest, and jerks the pointed tip out. You think of the way he fucked you and lean against the hard metal casing of his helmet.

You stroke his back as he begins the descent to where the rest of the Order are hiding, and you swear you hear him rumble contentedly.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think!  
> thanks to FancyLadySnackCakes and WitchoftheWestCountry for their encouragement and inspiration!!


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